


Last of Durin's Line II

by corvinadea



Series: Last of Durin's Line [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Durin Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, bigbrotherFili, timeline is off like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:43:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvinadea/pseuds/corvinadea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fill (sort of) for the following prompt at the hobbit-kink-meme:</p><p>Kíli was born early and had some problems with his health in his childhood. His brother and uncle, after nearly losing him to some illness (or whatever) once, are insanely protective of him. They were hesitant about allowing him to join the quest, leading to Kíli wanting to prove himself capable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last of Durin's Line II

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of these characters and mean no disrespect or infringement.  
> Also, my depiction of medical treatments is based on my plot and no real knowledge. Sorry.  
> Finally, the song is by Tolkien and is called The Song of Durin's Awakening.

It was long past time to close the forge. Thorin snorted as he smelted the plough blade he was completing for a human farmer. If this shack could be called a forge simply because it held anvil and flame. However, the farmer had paid double the normal price in advance for speed. And that had been a hard-won lesson. The word of men was as useless as that of elves when he lacked the might of Erebor’s forces at his back. Everyone paid in advance now. His pride might not have allowed this concesssion once, but it had only taken a week of Fili’s silent hunger for Thorin’s pride to be relegated to the back corner of his heart where he kept the memory of his father and grandfather. He could restore his pride when he restored his kingdom. For now, his people must come first. Especially Fili and Kili. They were dearer to him than the arkenstone and so he beat out ploughs and mended pots and did whatever other menial tasks people paid to see the king under the mountain (without a mountain) perform.  
  
His musings took him so far away that he was surprised to look down and see the completed plough on his anvil. He snorted again; this was work he could have completed in his sleep as an apprentice. His fingers longed for the soft glimmer of mithril…  
  
Thorin started as a cry came from the cave that currently housed his family and rushed to Kili’s cot. Thorin was unsurprised both to find Dis unmoved in her sleep and Fili already there, attempting to soothe his brother before his mother woke. His efforts were for naught, however, as Kili’s cry took on the ragged, wheezing quality he had developed earlier in the week and still Dis did not stir. Fili looked up as his uncle approached, relief clearly painted on his face. Then he saw Thorin’s scorched apron, sweaty face, and soot-covered hands.  
  
“The Healer says that smoke is bad for Kili’s lungs.” Knowing better than to argue with Fili on the matter of his brother’s health, Thorin detoured to the bathing barrel at the back of the cave. Quickly he deposited the apron and dunked his head and hands into the tepid water. Having rinsed the worst of the grime and the cloying forge-smoke, Thorin made his way back to the boys. “His nappie is dry and he wouldn’t take a bottle,” Fili reported. Thorin lifted the six-month old from his cot and held the boy’s chest to his ear. He rubbed Kili’s back soothingly, but his heart clenched at the wet, hacking sound in the infant’s lungs. He kissed the tiny forehead, relieved to find no fever, and settled Kili into Fili’s waiting arms.  
  
“Take him to the fort- I’ll be there in a moment.” Fili nodded solemnly and sat down amongst the blankets strung over chairs and rope. Thorin listened with half an ear as Fili began singing the Song of Durin’s Awakening to his brother, proud of how well his nephew knew the stories of their people.

The world world was young, the mountains green,  
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,  
No words were laid on stream or stone,  
When Durin woke and walked alone.  
He named the nameless hills and dells;  
He drank from yet untasted wells;  
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,  
And saw a crown of stars appear,  
As gems upon a silver thread,  
Above the shadow of his head.

Fili only made it through the first verse, though, before Kili’s cough became desperate and his lips began to tinge blue. Thorin quickly gathered water from the steaming pot over the fire and the herbal mixture the healer had sold them. He carefully measured the correct amount into the water, dismayed at how little was left. At most there was enough for two more doses and it was very dear. He tried to calculate how many more jobs a day he would need to afford a larger supply, but weariness made the numbers swirl endlessly before him like the herb leaves in the pot. Finally, the concoction steeped to the correct shade of green and Thorin rushed to his sister-sons. He wrapped the pot in a blanket so it couldn’t burn them and pulled the blanket fort closed behind him, allowing the vapor of the brew to fill the small space. Fili reluctantly handed Kili to his uncle and yawned largely. Thorin sighed, wishing he could shield both of them from all the trials of their homelessness.  
  
“Go back to bed, nephew. I can handle your brother from here.” Fili’s eyes got very big and he shook his head.  
  
“I can’t, Uncle Thorin. Kili doesn’t understand the thumping, but he’s not afraid, if I’m here.” Thorin did not doubt this and simply nodded as he laid Kili lengthwise on his raised knees, stomach-down. He also loathed this part.  
  
Fili watched silently as his uncle began to lightly thump Kili’s small back, alternating between fist and palm to break up the gathering fluid. At a pause in the rhythm Fili leaned his ear against Kili’s back, listening intently.  
  
“I think that is enough, Uncle. The wheeze is mostly gone as well. “ Thorin nodded and carefully lifted Kili from his swaddling and linens. The healer had advised skin-to-skin contact, and for all that the overgrown idiot had sneered at Thorin’s blackened hands and had counted Thorin’s payment in front of him, the herbs he prescribed had thus far prevented another of the first attacks. Where tiny Kili sounded as though he were drowning on dry land, and his whole body shook with the desperate attempts to find air, and his lips had been so blue. So, Thorin tucked Kili’s small body under his shirt, nestling him against his chest and angling his face nearer the steam.  
  
Fili settled next to them and traced circles on Kili’s back through the linen of Thorin’s shirt. “Uncle Thorin, the healer said Kili was weak. Is that why mama doesn’t love us anymore? She hardly ever hugs or kisses us and she never sings anymore.” Thorin’s eyes snapped open and he brought the arm that wasn’t cradling Kili around Fili, drawing him closer.  
  
“Kili is not weak; he has a condition. But as long as we are here to help him, he will grow strong, far stronger than that healer could ever imagine. Do you understand?” Thorin felt rather than saw Fili’s nodding head. “And your mama loves you both very much. She is still recovering from Kili’s birth and so she isn’t able to do all that she did before. That is why we must help as much as we can. Because we are family.” Fili nodded again and was silent for a few moments.  
  
“Uncle Thorin, Kili wants you to sing the rest of Durin’s Song. He likes the way your chest rumbles when you sing.” Thorin chuckled softly.  
“Well, if that is what Kili wishes, then I will do it. But you must sing with me.” Fili giggled his agreement and Thorin led him through the rest of the verses until they all three slept, propped up in a cave, surrounded by blankets.

  


The world was fair, the mountains tall,  
In Elder Days before the fall  
Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond  
And Gondolin, who now beyond  
The Western Seas have passed away:  
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne  
In many-pillared halls of stone  
With golden roof and silver floor,  
And runes of power upon the door.  
The light of sun and star and moon  
In shining lamps of crystal hewn  
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night  
There shown forever far and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,  
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;  
There forged was bladed and bound was hilt;  
The delver mined the mason built.  
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale  
And metel wrought like fishes' mail,  
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,  
And shining spears were laid in horde.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;  
Beneath the mountains music woke:  
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,  
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,  
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;  
The shadow lies upon his tomb  
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.  
But still the sunken stars appear  
In dark and windless Mirrormere;  
There lies his crown in water deep,  
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.


End file.
